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#complex ptsd

You know how when you reveal to people that you have c-PTSD, so you’re severely fucked up. And they say “Well you already lived through the hardest part. Now you have to heal.”

Hold on. Wait just a damn minute. During all those counts of abuse- I was numb. My heart and soul disconnected from my fucking body.

Now that I’m away. Now I feel everything. Sobriety sucks because even though I was stuck remembering and feeling- I could drink it away and suppress it back. Whisky made me numb again- if I drank enough of it. Now I feel it all again. No where to turn but “healthy outlets” which don’t take it all away.

So I’m not really sure when everyone tells me that the hardest part is over is true. It doesn’t feel like it.

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This is how Winry is spending quarantine. She doesn’t often chew this bone, but she loves to carry it around the house and snuggle with it when she naps.

Also a small self-promotion, I’m still up and running for all of your dog equipment needs! I spent all of my money on rent today and I don’t get paid until Tuesday, and I don’t get food stamps until Wednesday. I’d really love to be able to eat this weekend!

FB - Mountain Malamute Vests

Etsy - MountainMalamuteGear

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aged 19 sectioned I was transferred from the lovely Pelham to a care home, I was the first ever person to live in this care home (that’s some history for you) I was put on something called a deprivation of liberty (Dols for short) enforced by something called the high court of protection. At the time I lacked something called capacity to make my own decisions and keep myself safe. I couldn’t consent to my care or treatment, medication or where I lived or how I lived or my finances. Things would be decided for me in my best interest to keep me safe even if that ment depriving me of my liberty and right to make decisions and choices. This means I was under continuous supervision and control, I was not free to leave. I wasn’t allowed a phone. I wasn’t allowed to choose who I had contact with. I could go out on planned risk assessed trips with staff. EVERYTHING HAD TO BE RISK ASSESSED! the doors fob locked. if I tried to escape I would be restrained and possibly sedated. If I did get away the police would come after me. I didn’t have a choice. This was my home for many years and although iv spent alot of life in children’s homes or units and hospitals, This was different, there was no moving from here. This was life now. I have some happy memories of this place and funny memories with other residents and staff and I’m very grateful for staff. I’m alive, and I could be dead. I’m alive and bad things weren’t happening to me, I did need to be away. I did need to be on a DOLS, I’m alive now because My life was stopped. What I will say is though I was there years and I can’t account for all of that time. I was heavily heavily sedated all of the time on ridiculous quantities of prescribed drugs. I became overweight and I was a zombie that slept for days at a time. My hair was matted a lot and staff would have to brush the matted hair out for hours it would get so bad. I never thought i was leaving. Leaving never crossed my mind anymore. Home for life, life for home. Towards the end I didn’t have any plans of a life outside of there, i didn’t know anymore what life was like not in there. I’m still finding life very very hard still to grasp. In the very end if I hadn’t had some mental second wind of madness to run run run and be a massive cunt on one last bid of anarchy I wouldn’t of ever left. I would still be there now.

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2 girls with a Argos book turned into 3

I was led through the airlock onto the unit and strip searched. By all accounts I was pretty petrified, I stayed calm and collected on the outside but on the inside I was a very scared confused poorly girl who was trying to grasp the new reality of being in secure. I didn’t know what was going to happen and I had been told I was pregnant so I was on a 2 to 1 within arms reach. (I wasn’t pregnant they got my files mixed with another girls, this is another recount called a crazy phantom pregnancy) I was told not to tell any other young people about my situation for my own safety. I was led down the corridor to a open room called the REC (recreational room). Two girls were sprawled out on the floor flicking through a Argos catalogue,they introduced themselves with big smiles on there faces, they showed me a weird initiation. When new you had to climb through the hole in the back of the safe chair and re do it when you finally leave. The purpose of this was to demonstrate how fat everybody got in there. I didn’t feel so scared or alone anymore. Both girls where round about the same age as me, and had been in this place and places before for a lot of years. One of the girls had been in this place for 3 or 4 years. The other girl was extremely wise beyond her years and much more mature than me, even though we was roughly the same age. I looked up to her very much actually and I listened to her advice or when I was doing something not very good and staff or no one could make me listen, she had a incredible way of being able to explain things for me in a way I understood.

We was not allowed to be together in groups I think more than 3 as this was something called “colluding” and was strictly against rules and you would be dispersed. We would spend a lot of our time in the corridor with the Argos catalogue picking all the things we would buy for our flats or homes, something we desperately yearned for. We would make lists and even question staff on bills and rent and do calculations. We was always planning on the day we left, even though we had no idea when that would be and where we would be going. We talked of all the great clothes we would be able to wear again and the hair cuts and the lives we would lead, the food we would eat, the cups we would drink from. The dreaming of the first fag to cross our lips and a cider since god Knows how long. If only we could survive this. Singing songs we Wasn’t allowed to listen to. Running around screaming, being twats as much as we could! We wasn’t allowed to talk about our pasts but sometimes small bits we did and it made me fell less alone in what happened and Weirdly enough made me feel less crazy for reacting to what happened like I had, as we understand each other on a level nobody else did. We was all going through some kind of hell. not even the professionals could really grasp it. We was living it, this was our life. This was our reality everyday. We didn’t go home after a shift like staff, we was there 24 hours of a day. We was fighting our own demands but we was fighting them all together simultaneously.

We had nothing in that place. It was very secure and we didn’t have luxuries, sometimes we couldn’t go to the toilet by ourselves or shower. We couldn’t have socks or pens or cups or knickers or make up or toiletries, or fucking anything really. You couldn’t have it. It could be a violent place and very very unpredictable everyday. I have witness and been through a lot of horrific stuff in my life but nothing equates to the pain and suffering and torment kids went through in there, the devastating effects and aftermath of traumatic childhoods and mental illness. But on the other hand Iv never seen so much bravery and strength, so much fight, so much compassion from others that have been broken by others and in the worst frame of mind trying to help each other. I could not even comprehend or put into words. We was the most extreme cases put together under one roof and everyday was a battle between life and death. I didn’t know if I would see my friends there tomorrow if one of us wouldn’t make it through the day or night. I was always very happy to my friends in the morning!

Nobody stays there forever. Even if it may feel that way. You don’t know when you will leave and you don’t know where you will go. I remember the day the girl who had been there for 4 years left. It was a monumental day in that place. I remember how excited and how scared she looked to be walking out of that air lock to a whole life. I remember the day they took my buddy and transferred her and we cried in the corridor and staff called response for crying in the corridor! That made me very mad! I also remember months and months later being allowed to go to this mental fucking race track with all these demented mental bikes and low and behold guess who should be there if not my buddy!!!! We rode a tandem bike and many more weird fucked bikes that day and she was doing so well and so was I and we was happy and free in that moment. I remember the day I finally left and I tried the chair challenge, I had got fatter and I got stuck. I made other close friends in that place who I have no idea what happened to them and some of them arnt with us today. I wouldn’t see my buddy again until we were both grown women! still my fucking buddy and ever so proud of her!

(There was nothing recreational about this room. From my memory It had 1 safe sofas. Made from material that cannot be ripped, I don’t think they could be lifted either. A safe plastic chair that was weighted down because it was full of sand. The staffs station. The medication hatch and cctv cameras watching. The only recreational thing is that it was the only room/open space open to us all and not locked unless you was on the high dependency corridor, if you was down there you was separated from everybody)

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Do you ever get that thing where you know you were abused but then someone else validates that fact and confirms what you experienced was abuse and you get so shocked and surprised that you were abused

Like….I know I was abused. But also, you mean it was, like…abuse?

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I smile and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

I laugh off the pain.

I joke about my trauma.

I pretend Father’s Day is just another day.

I pretend August third means nothing.

I pretend April 12th means nothing.

I pretend Valentine’s Day has meaning.

I pretend you never existed.

Both of you.

I pretend I don’t flinch when a man talks.

I pretend I don’t cry when I’m yelled at.

I pretend someone grabbing my arm doesn’t make my heart stop.

I pretend I don’t feel trapped in large crowds.

I pretend I use the nurses bathroom because it’s convenient not because it’s bigger and I’m scared of inclosed spaces.

I pretend I don’t have nightmares every night.

I pretend I haven’t cried myself to sleep.

I pretend. I pretend. I pretend.

But I can pretend all I want pretending doesn’t make it true.

Abuse is all my brain knows I’m always in fight or flight.

Sexual and physical abuse from my ex. Mental abuse for my mother. Mental abuse and emotional neglect and minaplation from my father.

I’m too young to be this broken.


How am I supposed to live when all I know how to do is survive?

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My current mental state,

“I need to brush my hair for my video call with my therapist so she doesn’t think I need impatient again, I mean I probably do but that’s for me to know and her to not know.”

I spent my summer 2018 impatient at a hospital getting 24/7 therapy. Unlike a mental hospital or ward the type of therapy I was receiving a was to help cope with PTSD and anxiety that was so bad I couldn’t do anything anymore and lived in constant fear of myself and the people around me. It took 2 months of impatient and I call my therapist every two days for a check in I go to her office once every two weeks and have one video call a week. I’ll never fully be okay and that isn’t my fault I probably should spend some time impatient again but I really don’t want to.

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As someone who grew up in an financially unstable and emotionally abusive home, it brings me intense comfort whenever I remind myself that there is a Rite Aid right near my apartment that’s open 24/7. Friendship troubles? Anxiety attack? Depression? Rite Aid is always there for me no matter what.

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I’m so tired of my parents holding my symptoms over my head. They get frustrated at me when I ask about the past because I have a lot of years worth of memory loss and I just wish they understood me and didn’t make me feel bad for not working and talking about mental illness. I would stop talking to them but I still need their help and want to make them proud and I’m just so. tired. man

They just tell me how other people have had it worse and that I should be grateful and it’s frustrating because when I’m away from them sometimes I really am grateful but because I don’t voice it to them they just think I’m not.

They don’t want to hear about mental illness because “they’ve heard about it for so long” but they don’t seem able to grasp the fact that it can’t be cured overnight and by keeping myself busy and I never know if they’re right or if they’re emotionally abusive. I just feel so low after they talk to me and I feel like such a burden.

When I said I felt I was but didn’t want to be my dad didn’t even disagree. He just said “you’ve been saying that for years” and just..

Idk man. Needed to get this out. If you read this far thank you.

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When I was a kid, I was playing along with other children on swings in the park, then a kid came and stared at us because she wanted to play but there was no room for her. I stopped, and left the swing for her, she sprang to it and took my place.

Now as an adult, I think about what i did back then. I didn’t do it because i felt pity for her, or because she looked mesirable and pathetic. I did it because I was anxious, and terrified I occupied what I don’t deserve. The moment she appeared, I instantly realized she’s better than me and she deserves to play, I am taking what isn’t mine, i don’t belong here in the park. So I left, not feeling proud for being selfless and nice person, in fact, it was the exact opposite, I was full of self-loathing and hatred toward myself.

Now I realized, that I took a very long journey to heal from anxiety and depression, that started from a very young age. And I am really proud of my progress.

I am not fully recovered, I still have breakdowns and fears. But now I am an adult, more stronger, more insightful and aware. Anxiety and depression won’t beat me up and leave wondering and confused as in the past.

They will attack, beat me up, and I will be capable of fighting back.

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I have this fucking tendency to seem like everything is so utterly fine everyday.

Almost like a fucking talent. It’s funny because those few that I’m closest to either feel it and don’t say a single word or they really are that oblivious.

I want to slice my fucking skin so badly. But if I go to the hospital or the psych ward on a quarantine I’m kinda fucked.

If it rounds down it’s gonna be all or nothing.

I’m so dead inside compared to a couple years ago.

But in reality I feel this strange sense of comfort.

Maybe just maybe something good will turn out from all this consistent trauma and memories of lived nightmares.

_Thoughts Amongst The Smiles_

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